The Children’s Hour

Between nine and ten in the evening,
When the bell rings in ‘Taylor tower,

Comes a pause in the day’s occupations
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear on the sidewalk behind me
The patter of little feet.

Strange figures go scuttling forward
And into the gym retreat.

From the doorway I see in the limelight,
Panting to do and to dare,

Cousin Alys, the inexhaustible Apple,
And Jane Smith on a regular tear.

A whisper and then a silence,
Yet | know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together
To take some exercise.

A sudden rush for a partner,
A sudden dash for the Vic.

To the sound of enticing music
They begin to wriggle and kick.

They drag me into a circle.
Of my comfort they know not nor care.
If I trv to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

My arms they tear from the sockets,
My feet rarely touch the ground.

I pant and groan; still, though I moan,
The mad crowd shoves me round.

But though I rebel (ll remember,
Yes, forever and a day,
Cousin Alys twirling, her long skirt swirling,
And Hilda whooping away.
UrsuLa

ao

BaTCHELDER.